


let us hold the die uncast

by mothwrites



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Discrimination, Dubious Morality, Freeform, M/M, Wingfic, tim's broken childhood, wing hierachy, winged au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:51:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothwrites/pseuds/mothwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim aches with jealousy. He is ten, and his wings are deformed, and still as black as the night that Batman owns.<br/>(Winged au, freeform.) On hiatus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I had a craving for winged!Tim, and this is the result. I'm experimenting with style, so I'm sorry if it's a bit flowery! This first chapter is the prologue, which is why it's so short- over the summer I'll try and update regularly, but as of right now I have no idea where this story is going, so be patient with me.  
> The title is taken from Christina Rossetti's poem, "Promises Like Pie-Crust", which I think sums up Ra's/Tim perfectly.

When Timothy Drake is born, the hospital enters a sort of quiet uproar.

He is a small baby, not dangerously so, but still tiny, even for a newborn. Enough to cause comment. Or perhaps it is just the feathers that encircle him that make him seem so small, the soft, downy wings that dwarf his miniscule frame and set doctors muttering. The birth of a winged baby, although not as rare as it once was, is still a surprising and memorable event. Doctors will swap stories about delivering children with precious white feathers that quiver to the touch, unnatural and beautiful and the same time. Some of them will describe children with bronze wings, glinting metallic in the lights of the delivery room, and grey-winged infants; "ugly ducklings", who are held and teased and loved by the nursing staff, for a few short hours or days before they go home.

Timothy’s wings are not white, grey, or bronze. (There are people living who have even flashier colours; pinks, reds, and blues, like sunsets and exotic birds, but his are not that either.) Timothy’s wings are a deep, jet black, and everyone but Janet Drake sees this as an irreversible problem.

When Timothy is at home, away from prying eyes, she lets him play with his wings out, fanning around him in a cloak of velvet black. But outside, they must be bound tightly under his clothes. Unlike the other winged children he sees, with their wings splayed out brilliantly, ruffled by the winds, his start to become small and deformed, like a moulting duckling. This only encourages him to keep them hidden more often, until the only time he stretches his wings is in bed, where they cradle him as he sleeps. One morning, he hears his parents discussing how when he is older, they can pay for him to have surgery to remove the _inconvenience_. He waits for this to come up in conversation as a family, but it never does. It does not seem to be a choice.

At the circus his parents take him to for his sixth birthday, he sees more winged people together than he ever has in his short life. When his parents push him towards the Flying Graysons for a picture, Dick Grayson cheerfully shrugs an arm over his shoulders, and Tim freezes, because those fingertips are brushing the binding that keeps his wings in place. But if the young acrobat notices, he doesn’t comment, and Tim treasures the moment even more. Dick Grayson doesn’t have wings. He doesn’t need them. But if he had, Tim thinks, they’d be bright, snow-white. He imagines a feather falling to the ground as the weeping boy is led away by a man neither of them yet know.

Time goes on, and his parents are at home less and less, which means he has even more time for Batman and Robin. His picture collection has grown exponentially, to the point where he has to divide them into carefully hidden files. One for Batman. One for Robin. One for Nightwing, (his largest collection.) And one for the new Robin, Jason Todd. Bruce Wayne’s latest adoptee. Jason’s wings are small and grey, and in the early newsreels he is moulting from stress and malnourishment. Now, after a few months in Bruce Wayne’s care, he looks happier, healthier, and his wings are full and glossy. Tim _aches_ with jealousy. He is ten, and his wings are deformed, and still as black as the night that Batman owns.

Tim tries to keep his distance after Jason dies, but invisible strings pull his heart until he is face to face with the Batman. It takes a long time. Eventually, he is standing in the Batcave, and Bruce is looking him up and down, sending chills through his spine.

“Why do you bind up your wings?”

Tim starts. “I- how did you know?”

He receives a _look_. Bruce’s patented look of disapproval, which makes him feel about two years old. He’d rather Bruce said something like “I’m the World’s Greatest Detective, you _moron_ ,” instead of that awful, heavy silence, and a raised eyebrow. Eventually, he acquiesces, and says, “I noticed the binding under your t-shirt when you were up on your hands.”

“Right. Of course, _duh_. Sorry. My...” he cringes as the words come out, so _childish_ , “my mom doesn’t like me having them loose. She’s sort of old-fashioned.” He struggles for something else to say. “Is it a problem?”

“... Not as such. But your mother won’t recognise you in the costume. Do _you_ want them out?”

Tim responds in a heartbeat. “No! Thanks. I’ll keep them bound, I’m used to it.” He can’t bear the thought of Batman- _Bruce_ , seeing his wings. At eleven years they are far smaller than they should be, and crooked, and still jet-black. He’s almost looking forward to the inevitable operation. For now they are out of sight, out of mind. (He never stops thinking about them.) Bruce doesn’t ask about the colour, or anything else, for which he is thankful. It _is_ “old-fashioned,” of course, to think of black wings as something sinful, but for as long as Tim can remember they have been described as an “inconvenience”, a “problem”, and rarely, when his mother is unguarded, “a mark of cain”.

Timothy is eleven. He is winged. He is Robin. And for the moment, he is happy.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim held on just long enough to hear Bruce’s soft whisper of “my God...” before passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have chapter one!  
> Those of you looking for Ra'sTim- it's coming, I swear. But this is just a short first chapter about worldbuilding and bby!tim exploring how he feels about his wings.  
> I don't claim to know anything about binders, but I hope I've done an okay job. In the end notes, I'll give a quick list of who is winged in this verse, and what their wings are like.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Tim shook and gasped for breath, struggling to move under Bruce's unrelenting grip.

"Tim, stay _still_ ," he practically growled. "I've got to look at this. You'll make it worse, just stop _wriggling_ before I _tranquillise_ you."

How much blood had he lost? He couldn’t tell. He could only concentrate on pressing his back as firmly as he could to the gurney in the cave, while Bruce struggled in vain to get his binding off.

“ _Timothy_. You have _got_ to let me look at this.”

“It’s fine,” he gasped, trying to ignore the searing pain that shot up his wings as he moved. “I can stitch it up myself,” - he paused to hack up his lungs- “... in the morning.”

“Is this about your wings? It doesn’t matter, a gunshot wound is _far_ more important-”

“Bruce, please-”

“Stay _still_.” With a steely look, he pinned Tim to the gurney with his shoulder, and ripped apart the binding. The pain made him shudder so violently he felt like he was going to pass out- and then he blinked, and everything in the cave looked like he was seeing it through a smeared lense. Including Bruce’s face, so he couldn’t see his expression, but he could imagine it; surprised, then disgusted. Tim held on just long enough to hear Bruce’s soft whisper of “my God...” before passing out.

When he woke, he was lying in bed, and sun streamed in through the windows. He started to register all the usual things; the weather, the state of his room, his feathers tickling his skin. But everything was skewed, somehow. It was too hot and bright to be early morning, surely, and everything seemed tidier than he’d left it before going off to patrol. The biggest change came when he looked lazily over to his left, and Dick’s smile lit up the room.

“You’re awake!”

“Dick- Nightwing- _what?_ ” He sat up in a panic, and his wings spread out around him, rustling. “Oh my God. Close your eyes!”

“Tim, Timmers, it’s okay. Calm down. We all know now.” His hand trailed through the jet-black feathers, in a clear attempt to be comforting, but all Tim could think was stop, no, this isn’t right. “Oh, sorry. Don’t let me knock your bandages.”

“... Bandages?”

The corners of Dick’s mouth turned down. “Yeah, Timmy. Bandages. Bruce saw what a state your wings were in when _you nearly died from a gunshot wound-_  thanks for _that_ , by the way, _great_ answerphone message to come home to- anyway he patched you up and saw. Why didn’t you tell us they were that bad?”

Tim blinked rapidly, trying to process things. _Bandages_? Yes, his wings were a little stunted, one might even say a bit deformed, but this made no sense. He swivelled his head around rapidly, trying to catch a full view. His wings ached as he raised them up slightly. Bruce- or Alfred, most likely- had treated all the little bare patches with ointment, judging by the faint oily sheen, and there was sticking plaster in the places where constant rubbing and the pressure of a binder had broken through the skin. One particular area, the top arch of his right scapular, had a proper bandage, secured with medical tape. Dick caught him looking.

“That one was the worst. You should have said something, it could have got so much worse. Don’t you ever think about infections? You’re supposed to be the sensible one!”

He let Dick’s concerned prattle wash over him as he inspected his wings. _It’s not the colour. It’s the condition. He hasn’t mentioned that they’re black. He’s just worried I’ll get sick._

... Too good to believe. Surely?

“Tim?”

“Hmm?”

Dick’s eyes searched him thoroughly. “Timmers, are you okay? Aside from the gunshot wound, I mean. Tell me honestly. Don’t say “I’m fine” without meaning it.”

He gently shrugged Dick’s hand from his wings. “I’m honestly fine. Just a bit woozy from the blood loss, I guess.”

“I’m not talking about this morning. Why are your wings so beaten up? Is this some kind of self-harm thing for winged people? _Tim?_ "

“Dick, I’m fine. It’s just a side effect of binding, they get rubbed a bit raw sometimes. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“But _why_ are you binding? I don’t understand.”

“Because...” he flapped a little in frustration. “Well, you can see them. You’d bind them too.”

“I would _not_ ,” Dick replied immediately, looking mildly affronted. “They’re gorgeous, Timmy. Very shiny. And I’m sure you can, you know, grow them a bit more.”

Tim shrank back. It was true that with years of binding, they were far smaller and more curved than healthy wings should be. He hadn’t realised it was that noticeable.

"... Sure. That's how it works. Can we just- food. Breakfast. Okay?"

*

Alfred stopped them both on their way down to the kitchen, and immediately inspected his wings. Tim had a sneaking suspicion that his binder had been put away somewhere he wouldn’t be able to get to. This put him in mind of parents who put pills on high shelves so children couldn’t reach; but of course, if that were true, it wasn’t as if his unbound wings would be any help. At thirteen, the age where most winged kids started flying properly, his wings were far too weak to support his body in the air.

Tim scrutinised  the kitchen as Alfred checked that his bandages were still in place. No binder in sight, which was obvious- but even if it _had_ been lying neatly in front of Tim’s chair, Bruce sipping coffee and reading the news at the head of the table would still have been the bigger surprise. He couldn’t help staring as Dick wove around him, grabbed a slice of toast, flopped down next to Bruce and started chattering, getting half-smiles and grunts in return. _Is this a family meal? We don’t do family meals_, Tim thought desperately. _This can’t be about last night. Don’t be stupid._ But it was only when he sat down that Bruce’s eyes finally looked up from his paper.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit woozy from the blood loss, I guess.” He was acutely aware of his wings looming behind him, so out of place in this family setting that was already strange. Dick, for his part, couldn’t keep his eyes off them.

After a few moments of unbearable silence, Tim cast around for something to say. “So... Where did you put my binder, by the way?”

“In the trash,” Bruce answered immediately, sending a stab of panic through Tim’s heart.

“ _Why?_ ”

“It was about two sizes too small for you, Timmers,” Dick explained while buttering a second slice of toast. “Didn’t it hurt?”

“Well...” the easy answer was yes, it did. But it was the dull ache of monotonous binding, not anything serious. True, the tops of his scapulars were constantly rubbed raw, and on certain nights sleeping on his back was either agony or just plain impossible, but it was _manageable_. After a second, he realised they were waiting for an explanation. “Mom always ordered mine online,” he offered up quickly. “She’d kept one bigger size spare when she got my last one, before- but anyway, when that got too small, I didn’t know where to get a new one.”

He could see from Bruce’s face, that wasn’t good enough. “So why didn’t you _ask?_ ”

“I didn’t want to be any trouble,” he finished lamely.

“Your well-being is not _trouble_ , Master Timothy.” Soft-footed, Alfred had come up behind him, bearing a small jar of antiseptic cream. “Twice a day on those bare patches. A new binder has been ordered, in the correct size- with some growing room, of course. But I must insist that you do not wear it for several weeks.”

“ _Weeks?_ ”

“At least four.” Behind them, Bruce made an affirmative sound, and Dick mumbled, “or _never_.”

“But-”

“This isn’t up for negotiation, Tim.”

“But I can’t stay in the house for four weeks! I’ve got school, and patrol...”

“We can make some alterations to your costume.”

“ _No_.” He surprised himself with the force behind the word, but it couldn’t be helped. Bruce’s face, though... “I mean, it’s too much of a coincidence, me suddenly showing my wings at school, and then Robin getting some the same colour. Right?”

There was a pause. “Right,” Bruce finally acquiesced. “You can skip patrol for those four weeks and train indoors. But school is non-negotiable. Understood?”

With a sigh, Tim slumped back in his chair, wincing as the sore arches of his wings hit the wooden back. “Understood.”

 

*

 

“I don’t get it,” Kon whined as they made their way through town on a summer evening. _I need to get out of the house,_ Tim had frantically texted him an hour before. “I mean, obviously _I_ don’t need them, but most people would kill to have wings!”

“Not black ones,” Tim replied dully, kicking the stones that strayed onto his path. “Not tiny, _deformed_ ones.”

“They’re only deformed because you bind them. Which leads me to my earlier question- I don’t get it!”

“Declaration.”

“What?”

“I don’t get it. Declaration, not question.”

“Oh, shut up. No-one cares if your wings are black, this is the 21st century.”

Tim’s overly observant eyes had caught too many unpleasant glances since leaving the house to agree. “People do care. They just don’t say anything to your face any more.”

“Bart’s got wings and he’s fine.”

“Bart’s wings are _gold_. There is an extreme difference between pretty gold wings and ugly black ones.”

“Well, I think they’re neat.”

“As always, you are a good friend and a hopeless liar.” _Passable, right now._ Why did he have to bring up Bart’s wings? His other best friend was a constant source of envy for Tim. Bart’s shiny, golden wings were a little too big for his age, so they dwarfed his lithe frame, causing people to coo over him dramatically whenever he went out. When this happened, Kon would laugh, and then catch himself and look at Tim sympathetically, and he _hated_ it. It didn’t help that Kon gathered so much attention too, because of his exuberant personality. Even the girls had started noticing him now, making it even worse. 

“Bart binds too,” Tim quickly added.

“Yeah, when he’s- uh, working. So he can be more aerodynamic. Or when he’s sick of people calling him cute. Not the same!”

“Can we just drop it?”

“Nah. I think you should make them part of your costume.”

Tim stopped dead in his tracks, almost bumping into a young couple with their grocery shopping. “ _What_?”

“You heard me,” Kon replied, cheerful as ever. “Robins- as in the actual birds- have wings. The last Robin had wings. You have wings. It would be awesome.”

“No. People aren’t that stupid, they’d connect the dots. And more importantly, I don’t _want_ to!”

Dick had tried that tack too. _“Jay’s wings were pretty dark, and no-one was mean to him!”_ But Jason’s wings were grey, not jet-black. He tried so hard not to get angry at Dick- it was like shouting at a puppy- but it was difficult when he just refused to understand. _He_ didn’t have to _live_ with them.

*

Tim finally got his new binder after four (and a half) weeks. The promises he made to Alfred rang in his ears as he shrugged off his t-shirt- modified for winged people, with buttons down the sides. _“Yes, I know how serious infection can be... yes, I promise I’ll let them loose more often.”_ A small price to pay for regained freedom. It was only after slipping the new one over his neatly furled wings that he realised how badly in need of a new one he had been. He studied himself in the mirror. It was stretchier than his last one, and made of a more comfortable, slightly padded material. He flexed his shoulder blades forward and back, and found that his wings had breathing room, but were still held securely in place. And best of all, his costume fit again. That was worth weeks of stares and thinly veiled contempt. That was worth _everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winged people in this verse, (though this list is just off the top of my head and I'll probably add more in.)  
> \- Tim, deep black.  
> \- Jason, dark-ish grey.  
> \- Steph, white.  
> \- Bart, gold.  
> \- Dinah, small and bright yellow.  
> \- Talia, (undecided;); black, silver, or deep red.
> 
> There are many different varieties of wings, all based (surprisingly) on birds; common colours are brown, white, and grey, (for more common birds such as starlings, robins, pigeons, and doves.) Less common are black, and also exotic colours; all the flashy ones like yellows and blues and greens. Tim isn't the only person who binds their wings- a lot of people find it handy- but when wings reach medium to full growth, they're too big to be contained easily.  
> A lot of people have black mixed into their wings, (think jays and magpies,) but very few people have wings of pure black.  
> If anyone has ideas for people and their wings, (or just want to discuss batfic in general,) drop me a message on here or my tumblr, (carolinesavictim).


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My dear detective,” Ra's addressed him, while he gasped and tried to get up to his feet under a new and confusing weight. “Calm yourself. Insanity doesn't become you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for the long gap in between updates- I'm preparing to move to a different city, and things have been super busy. The timeline's a bit weird in this chapter, (I was experimenting,) but the first and last parts are present day, while the rest should be easy enough to figure out, (they're labelled just in case!) Thank you to everyone who's left a kudo or a comment so far, it's so good to know that people are reading. Enjoy!

 Coursing, emerald insanity clouded Tim's vision, and all he wanted in the world, (more than finding Bruce, more than figuring out where he himself was, more than _anything,)_ was for the world to stop spinning and the screaming in his head to _shut up._ It was so loud, and he could feel himself compressing under the weight of his confusion, knees buckling, lungs shrinking-

Strong arms wrapped around his waist, squeezed _tight,_ and the screaming stopped as Tim almost bit down on his tongue. He opened his mouth experimentally. Still no noise. And then he slumped down, hanging from the stranger's arms, feeling exhausted, and dizzy, and unable to see, as if his eyes were shut tight. Tim attempted to blink. He _had_ shut them. A familiar face now loomed over him, and he tried to look up to discern it properly, but his head- no, his shoulders- were so heavy he could barely move.

“My dear detective,” Ra's addressed him, while he gasped and tried to get up to his feet under a new and confusing weight. “Calm yourself. Insanity doesn't become you.”

 

 

  (red robin)

 Tim had realised a while ago that Ra's al Ghul was a collector of rare and beautiful things. The amount of time he'd spent at his headquarters recently had shown him that. Although built for practicality, not aesthetics, most of the rooms were sumptuously decorated with intricate designs and dark, lush fabrics. There was an air of ceremony around the place. Ra's was a king, though not in name, and Tim wasn't too proud to admit that there was a sense of awe mixed in with his feelings of fear and anxiety upon waking up to his unfamiliar, but strangely beautiful surroundings.

He had been subdued, (almost gently,) by the ninja he had tried to attack, and was sat on the same medical table he'd woken up on, by a green, bubbling pit. The sight of it unnerved him, even though he was sure he hadn't gone into it, or even near it, while he was unconscious. His wounds still hurt, he had stitches... and, well, he didn't feel _mad._ Confused, tired, and scared, yes. But still relatively sane.

“Detective.” Ra's voice rang out clearly through the stone cavern of a room. With a curt, “leave us,” directed towards the various ninja, he made his way to Tim's gurney. His very presence seemed to command authority, and as Tim looked from the stitches on his abdomen to the man in front of him, he finally registered that he was shirtless, and his wings were on full display. He was vulnerable; the most vulnerable he could possibly get, and he was with _Ra's al Ghul._

Tim resisted the urge to curse.

“Ra's. Thanks for the... hospitality.” He merely nodded, saying nothing. “You kept me alive,” Tim continued. “And I'm grateful. But why?”

Ra's studied him for a moment. His eyes swept up and down Tim's bruised body; his face, his eyes, heavy and purpled with fatigue, his broken, unbound wings. Eventually, he answered him.  
“Because, Timothy, I appreciate beauty, and talent. You have both those qualities in abundance while alive, but dead, you are no use to me.” His eyes lingered on Tim's wings for a long, silent moment, until Tim shivered. “Why do they upset you so?”

“My wings? They don't upset me.”

Ra's scoffed. “You bind them. You _hide_ them. You are uncomfortable while they are out in the open. Do not think that you are subtle about this, detective. I can see they upset you. The whole _world_ can.”

“Why do you _care?_ Are you one of those wing fetishists?” He knew immediately that was the wrong thing to say. There's something very strange and very _wrong_ about being _crass_ in front of Ra's al Ghul.

“I told you,” he said coolly, “I appreciate beauty.”

“But...” _they're not beautiful_ , was what he'd like to say, but somehow knew he shouldn't, as obviously deformed and bare as they were. “I'm sorry, what are your motives here? This... _alliance_ we've got going on. You let Tam go. And you're helping me. I _think_ you might have just saved my life. What do _you_ get out of it?”

Ra's trailed a hand down Tim's feathers, and he shivered again. “I would have thought that was obvious, Timothy. I get _you._ Damaged and fragile as you are, I find you very intriguing.”

There was a part of Tim that had alarm bells ringing, warning lights flashing, body tuned and tense and ready to move into defence mode without a moment's notice. It was the part of him that was trained by Shiva, and Batman, and Nightwing. The part that was never turned off, and controlled by the voice in his head that was screaming about how this was _not a good idea, turn around, go home._ The part that remembered the last time someone was this interested in his wings.

Tim ignored it.

“You don't like your wings because others don't like them,” Ra's continued. “But I do, Timothy. I like them a great deal.” His hand travelled further down Tim's wings, fingers digging deeper into the places where soft feathers still remained, and he leaned into the touch.

 

 

(robin)

 

“Let me see ‘em, replacement. Let me see those fancy wings of yours.”

Tim wouldn’t admit to shaking as he peeled off the back of his costume, (neatly modified by Alfred to accommodate his growing wings.) He was left vulnerable and bare from the waist up, but looking at the amount of weapons on Jason’s body, he didn’t think he’d prefer the alternative. Jason circled him slowly. The slightly salty breeze from the docks ruffled his feathers and made him shiver, but that was nothing compared to the sudden rough touch of Jason’s gloved hands on his feathers.

“Well, you’re all _kinds_ of freaky, replacement.”

“They’re just- they’re just _different,_ ” he tried to argue, though his teeth were chattering. _Nice, Tim. Very intimidating._ “Batman doesn’t mind.”

Jason laughed; a mean, cold sound. “That just makes it _peachy,_ then. Can I keep one? I want to keep one.”

“Wh- what?”

There was a sudden movement behind him, and before he knew it, he was pressed face first against a wall and Jason’s hand had curled into a fist around one of his feathers. He was _pulling._ It was all Tim could do not to scream. _Batman wouldn’t want you to hurt him. Bruce wouldn’t want you to hurt his son._ Jason wrenched until one came loose and Tim could feel a thin stream of blood trickling down, but still refused to make a sound. Jason pushed his head against the wall one last time for good measure, and then let him up, twirling one black feather around his fingers.

“You-”

“Shut up, kid. What’s that thing Dick’s stupid friend always said? Oh, yeah. _Souvenir._ ” A glint came into his eyes. “Something for B to remember you by.”

“No, wait.” Tim was suddenly acutely aware of how vulnerable he was, stupid, _stupid._ “I just came to talk-”

The batarang embedded itself in his chest before he could finish. At first he only registered the shock of it. And then blood rose up and welled across his fingers, wet and warm and alien, as he clutched his chest and looked up at Jason, who seemed to be getting taller and taller. Tim's head hit the ground as the giant walked away, lighting a cigarette as he went. His last thought was _Bruce won't like that,_ before he slipped away.

 

  
(tim, 17)

 

Bruce is dead.

Tim moults overnight and wakes up in a pile of black feathers.

 

Bruce is dead.

Dick’s face changes; lines set in, corners turn down.

 

Bruce is dead.

Damian puts on a costume that he has no right to wear.

 

Bruce is dead.

Kon is dead. Bart is dead.

 

Bruce is dead.

And Bruce _is not dead._  


 

 

*

 

“Timmy, please-”

“No. Just, just- _no._ ”

Wildly, Tim cast around for somewhere to go. Metropolis was no longer an option; Conner was gone and Clark would just bring him straight back. The clock tower, _maybe,_ but it was too close, too familiar. And Steph would be there, most likely; with her waves of golden hair, and snow-white feathers, and her way of saying “it’s okay,” when nothing would ever be okay again.

Dick was still staring at him, reaching for Tim’s arms. Behind him, the little demon smirked and put his hands on his hips, all the better to show off his brand new utility belt. Just the sight of it was enough to make Tim feel sick.

“I’ve got to go,” he said abruptly. “I'm sorry. But I'm prepared to work alone, as you so clearly have all the help you need.”

“Don't be like that. You and I are equals, we're closer in age- we're not Batman and Robin.”

“ _I am Robin._ You don't get to just change that. It's _my_ costume.”

“Not any more, Drake.” Damian's voice dripped with a strange mixture of malice and contentment. Tim's hands balled into fists, but didn't trust himself to say anything. _Be quiet, Tim._ _Be polite, Tim. Keep your defences high._ But Damian kept talking. “Besides, I look better as Robin. My costume looks better, and there are no _wing holes.”_

Tim's sharp intake of breath felt like a knife through his chest. He levelled an accusing gaze at Dick, unable to look at Damian at that moment.

“You told him?”

He looked nonplussed. “It's a secret?”

“ _Yes-_ ” he spat back, and then groaned in frustration. “No, it's not a secret. It's just-”

“Embarrassing?” Damian supplied, grinning maliciously. “Shameful? A hindrance? _Hilarious?_ ”

“ _Boys,_ ” Dick growled, in his best Batman impression, but no-one laughed. “Come on, guys, seriously. We're family. Can we talk this out calmly?”

Tim and Damian spoke at the same time- “ _No._ ”

“There's nothing to talk about. See you later,” Tim practically growled, wishing he didn't sound so childish in front of an actual child, but there was nothing to be done. He was leaving and Dick wasn't coming after him. He didn't look back until the door was closed and he was alone.

 

 

(tim wayne)

 

“Are you going back there?”

Tam, still brave and upright even in her fear, looked Tim straight in the eyes as she asked her question. Not at her phone, or at his wings, which were out, folded in as small as he could manage. She looked him straight in the eyes and he couldn't bring himself to lie.

“Yes.” Tam made a muffled sound that could have been a gasp, or even a small sob, Tim wasn't sure. He wished she wasn't blinking so rapidly. “Don't cry, Tam. I'll come back. We're engaged, remember?” He smiled, a Tim Wayne smile; friendly, small, and a little bit fake, but it seemed to work. Her arm flew across her face to wipe her eyes and then suddenly she was Tam Fox again, calm and professional.

“I'll sort that out when I get back, I promise. That was so _stupid-_ ”

“No, no,” he cut her off. “It's fine. I don't think anyone will have taken any notice of it.”

“I'm going to see if- _ooh,_ there's wi-fi on this train- I'm going to see if there's any buzz about it online. God, I hope not.”

“Hmm,” Tim agreed absent-mindedly. Secretly, he thought it would be good for there to be a _little_ buzz. The paparazzi was never quite sure about Tim. They tended to fawn on Dick, who took the attention good-naturedly. Tim was sure that an engagement scandal, while tedious, would at least paint a picture of Timothy Drake-Wayne as a perfectly normal rich teenager. He could use some normality. “I bet your dad is freaking out right now.”

“Bet yours is,” Tam returned, buried in her cellphone. Tim held back a wince.

“Yeah, probably. He can be kinda over-protective, I don't know why.”

“Does he make you bind your wings?”

Genuinely surprised, Tim's façade slipped for a moment. “Huh?”

“Does he-” Tam's sentence was cut off when she buried her face in her hands. “ _I'm so sorry._ I didn't mean to say that out loud.”

“No. He doesn't.” He found himself gripping his armrests tightly. Tim Wayne was a known winged person, thanks to Tim's gunshot wound incident and Bruce's insistence on “airing your wings out for a bit”. But they weren't something anyone talked about, outside of family and close, _close_ friends. Tim felt a pang in his chest as he imagined seeing a bronze glint out of the corner of his eye, and for a second, swore he could hear Kon's deep laugh. When he came back to the real world, Tam was watching him carefully.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. No harm done.” Tim flashed her another Tim Wayne smile, and mentally told himself to _get a grip._ “So, what's the word on us?”

“We're getting married,” Tam said, distaste evident in her voice and the curl of her lip. “Soon. Apparently I want a winter wedding.”

“You can pick the date if I can pick the colours.”

“Deal.”

 

 

(tim, present)

 

Tam. That was the last thing he'd remembered. Tim searched his mind for a clear path into his recent memories, and saw himself dropping her home, getting a glare from Lucius Fox, promising to explain later... he didn't go back to the apartment, he didn't call a cab- or did he? Did he walk home?

“I don't remember,” Tim moaned, to no-one in particular. He'd stopped thrashing about once he'd been grabbed, hating how he'd gone limp like a rag doll but with no energy to move. “No, I do. I was grabbed.” He conquered, briefly, the heavy weight on his shoulders and looked Ra's in the eyes. “What did you _do_ to me?”

“I fixed you,” Ra's said simply. “You can stand, Timothy, I'm sure you have it in you. Most people find they have _more_ energy after immersing themselves- but you always have to be an enigma, don't you?”

“Fixed me?” The hands came back- a ninja, he presumed- and helped him to his feet. When the presence behind him stepped back and left him unsupported he swayed on the spot and almost fell backwards, but couldn't bear to be so low down and vulnerable in front of Ra's again. The question waiting to be answered pushed at his head again- _what is so heavy?-_ and though Tim could feel the answer buried in there, he was too tired, too confused to dig it out. He reached behind him instead, to feel what was there. He expected some kind of bonds, heavy metal ones, to explain for the weight. But he was free. There were no cuffs, no chains. He reached behind himself and his fingers met soft, long feathers adorning stronger bones than he remembered having. His wings flexed experimentally, and he had to fight for stability again. Tim took in a breath, long and deep, and tried to ignore how amused Ra's was becoming.

He flexed his wings again, and pushed them out as far as he dared. His feathers rustled in shock, and then fell still. High above him and sweeping down to the ground; over his bones, out to the coverts, and to the very tips of his primary feathers, Tim's wings fanned out, new, resplendent, and healthy, for the first time since birth.

Ra's nodded, finally answering the question. “I fixed you. As I told you before, Timothy, I like your wings a great deal. I don't appreciate you damaging them _almost_ beyond repair.”

Tim's head was rapidly clearing, but he still had trouble with trying to fix the image of his wings as _not_ damagedin his head. He had one overwhelming thought.

“Move out of the way.” Tim bounced on the heels of his feet, attempting to get used to the new weight. Ra's raised a hand to his mouth as the corners of his mouth turned up, and he stepped to the side. Tim took one shaky step, then another. Then he _ran,_ relying on his natural instincts and his new wings to carry him higher, to lift him up; to _fly._


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Trapped is a harsh word,” Ra’s had replied calmly when Tim first flung the word at him in a fruitless rage. “You are being cared for.”

Of course, Tim reflected later on, it was much easier to imagine yourself flying with your fancy new wings when you weren’t aware of the fact that flight was impossible. Sighing, he sat on the edge on the gilt bathtub in his new surroundings and trailed a lethargic foot through to hot water. He wondered, dully, if Ra’s had somehow done this on purpose; restored his wings to a state of magnificence, but clipped them so his new pet couldn’t fly away. It seemed as good a thing to pin the blame on as any. It didn’t stop himself wanting to travel back in time and slap his past self silly for conforming to his parents’ rules and not learning how to fly in the first place. He’d even settle for going back only a few days earlier, to the day where he first woke up with his new, infuriating, (beautiful) wings, and tell himself to just run instead of wasting those precious moments trying to take off.

Tim swung his legs out of the tub and reached for a towel. Imagining and re-imagining such a scene was pointless. There was no time machine, and he was still trapped.

“Trapped is a harsh word,” Ra’s had replied calmly when Tim first flung the word at him in a fruitless rage. “You are being _cared_ for.” _Conditioned_ , more like, Tim thought, miserable, as he re-dressed. He’d been kept in relative luxury for almost a week now, but kept also from the outside world and anything or anyone who could help him. A new world war could have broken out, Gotham obliterated, and Tim would have no notion of it. He’d given up fighting after the first few days. Ra’s was clearly reluctant to hurt him in any way that might mar his face or skin, (or God forbid, his wings,) but wasn’t above keeping him sedated if it came to it. Waking up disoriented and heavy had been even less fun the second time around.

A voice broke up his thoughts. “Detective.” Tim flinched. Across the lavish room, Ra’s al Ghul cut an imposing figure in the doorway. “Timothy,” he said again. “I trust you are well?”

Tim made sure to look him in the eyes as he glanced up. “No change from yesterday. How could there be?”

“Indeed.” Ra’s crossed the room in three powerful strides, and laid a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Turn,” he commanded, and Tim complied, too apathetic to bother resisting. He faced away from his captor and let him inspect his wings, as if something might have changed in the last few stagnated days.

“What are you expecting to see?” he asked, not expecting an answer himself. He was surprised to find himself being steered forward in response, towards the grand, floor-length mirror he’d thrown several blankets and sheets over on his first day. Ra’s saw them and tutted, and pulled them off with one hand, leaving Tim stood, uncomfortable, in front of himself.

“I am not expecting to see anything, detective.” His other hand made its way to the small of Tim’s back and Tim shivered, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His feathers twitched. “I am much more interested,” Ra’s continued, “in what you see.”

“I see a kidnapped teenager and a creepy old man,” Tim said immediately, bored to death of Ra’s’ weird attempts to “motivate” him. “And a really big mirror. And some blankets. And-” Ra’s cut him off with a pinch to the delicate skin under his hand, and Tim felt a little better knowing he’d irritated him. “Am I allowed to get dressed now? Keeping teenagers captive is one thing, keeping them in only a towel is another.”

“In a moment. _Look_.”

“I _am_ looking.”

“Look _properly_. You have to learn to stop avoiding yourself.”

“You have to stop trying to be some sort of menacing motivational coach,” Tim grumbled, but looked up anyway. He would have been almost dwarfed by Ra’s’ imposing frame, if it weren’t for his new wings, glistening, tall and healthy. Ra’s ran his fingers through them, as was his way, while Tim looked. “How long do I have to look for?”

Ra’s chuckled. “You know the answer to that already.” _Until I say so._

“Right,” Tim sighed, trying to appear bored with his current situation; but it was hard to pretend to be uninterested in his company when he’d been alone all morning, and unwillingly, he found himself transfixed by his captor’s hands running through his feathers. It felt... good. Better than he’d ever admit. He’d heard mentions and rumours of how Ra’s liked to recruit winged people to show them off, but had no illusions about what he did with them. Or, what he thought he did; but going by the evidence of Ra’s’ wandering hands, Tim was pretty confident in his assessment. They’d now left his wings, and were skimming the soft skin of his hipbones, making his stomach flutter. He jerked, involuntarily, and didn’t miss Ra’s’ catlike smirk reflected in the mirror above him.

“I need to get dressed,” Tim said pointedly. “I have a long day of trying to escape captivity in front of me.”

Ra’s stepped backwards. “As you wish, detective. But later, you have lessons to attend. Someone will come for you.”

Tim whipped around, startled. “Lessons? What do you mean, lessons? I told you,” he glared, as menacingly as he could, “I won’t work for you.”

“Not lessons in combat, Timothy,” Ra’s replied as he stepped out of the door. “You’ll see.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He called back, but Ra’s had already gone. _Damnable enigmatic bastard._ He pulled on the clothes provided and sank down on the bed, all energy or drive lost and forgotten. Lessons in what, if not combat? Infiltration? Hacking? Yoga? As if he needed to calm down. He wanted to get _angry_. A week of being quiet and sneaky and getting absolutely no results had worn him down, and his attempts at struggling before that had got him nowhere. And gone where the days where he had trackers to call the Titans for help, or a super-powered best friend who could lift him out of a tricky situation. He felt completely and utterly useless, and angry: at himself, for getting into this situation, and at Ra’s, for keeping him captive, gaining and abusing his trust, and for being so... interesting. He would grudgingly admit that it was a bit of a thrill to be considered in any way important enough to merit this amount of attention and security,but he knew he was just a simple amusement for the Demon’s Head.

Tim contemplated his next move. He’d figured out the locations of the cameras in his room on the first day, and knew that there was no spot in the entire place that he could stand in without being seen. And even if there was; there was nothing to be done. Even if he could call for help, there was no-one to call. It wasn’t like the old days.

Still, in a burst of nostalgia, he closed his eyes, and spoke into the empty air.

“Wish you were here, Kon.”

*

"You have got to be kidding me."

Shiva gracefully slid down from the ledge she was perched on, up on one of the very highest levels of the league's current headquarters. She moved towards him and Tim was suddenly very conscious of their height, and how small the workers and assassins looked when he peered over the balcony.

"It's good to see you too, little bird. Turn around."

Tim wasn't about to argue with one of the deadliest killers on the planet. He span on the spot, slowly, until his wings were facing her.

"You've seen them before," he pointed out.

"Not like this. They look good."

“ _So_ ,” he said, and span back around, tired of people inspecting his wings. “Lessons? Just like old times, hey? Though, really, I think I was probably your best student. Or at least the nicest. So you should help me escape.”

Shiva laughed; cold and cruel. “I'm not going to _save_ you, little bird. As my student, you should be strong enough to save yourself.”

“So why would Ra's bring you here? To teach me? Teach me what?”

“Not Ra's. I came here personally. As you said- you are my student. I refuse to have a winged student who can't fly. It's degrading.”

Tim's stomach lurched, and he gripped the edge of the railing, knuckles going white. “ _I don't need this_. Flying lessons? Really? I didn't take you for the- _oh God_ \- mother bird sort.” She was moving closer.

“Jump, or I'll push you. I don't have all day.”

“I'll _die_.”

“You wouldn't die from this height. And I'm sure your new keeper would resurrect you if you did.”

“ _Don't call him that._ ”

“Jump, and flap. It's not that hard. And if you fall, you'll try again, until I'm satisfied.”

“ _Fuck_.” He wasn't scared of heights. You couldn't be Robin for that many years and be scared of heights. But he _was_ scared of dying, before he could escape, before he could find _Bruce_ , (though that was seeming more and more impossible each day.) And he was scared of Shiva. She hadn't changed at all since he last saw her, aged twelve, and she was still awe-inspiring, and terrifying. And he knew she was relatively _nice_ to him.

“Ten seconds, Timothy.” He stood up on the ledge. _It can't be that hard_. He just wished he didn't have a damned _audience_. _Is Ra's there?_ He squinted. _I highly doubt it. Okay, Tim._

He stepped off the ledge.

His first thought was, inevitably, of falling. And then a gut wrenching, stomach-dropping panic, because he _wasn't_ Robin, and this _wasn't_ Gotham, and there was no line, until his mind screamed loud enough at him to _move_. With his eyes screwed tightly shut he didn't quite register what was happening, only that the wind wasn't rushing past his ears like it was before, and his back ached like he was fourteen and struggling under a binder two sizes too small. His feet lightly brushed the ground, and then he collapsed in an ungainly manner, bending a few feathers as he sprawled onto his back.

Tim opened his eyes. He wasn't dead, and that was a start.

“Not bad,” Shiva announced, landing lightly on her feet, dark red wings folding neatly behind her as she walked over. “You stopped yourself from hitting the ground just in time, hovered for a good five seconds, I've seen worse.” She nudged him with his foot, and Tim groaned, deep and agonised. “But I've seen better. _Much_ better. Get up.”

“Right now, I'd rather die. Does it always hurt this much?”

“Get up. You've never used those muscles before,” she commented as he got to his feet, almost falling over as he did so. “We're starting off lightly.”

“This is _light_? _This_? I can't even lift them.”

“Oh, yes. Just you wait until we start _really_ flying, little bird. Follow me.” She crouched down a little, and then gracefully ascended, reaching the top level in a matter of seconds. Tim knew it was only for show; she was fast and deadly when she flew for real. And he knew he had to follow her. It took him too long, far too long to get started: by the time he was airborne he was gasping for breath. Every thrust upwards was accompanied by stabbing pains, and as he dragged himself up to the chilly stare of his former mentor he cursed himself, his parents, cursed Bruce, for not teaching him how to do this before. Tim arrived on the balcony with just enough room to collapse before Shiva deigned to nudge him with her foot to send him falling down again.

*

“Christ, Kon. Everything hurts. No-one told me that when I was little, flying is _hard_.” Tim was vaguely aware of how ridiculous he sounded, talking into thin air in his surveillance-laden room. It was risky, but if Ra’s thought he was being merely sentimental, then he wouldn’t get in trouble. His lip curled slightly at the idea of that, “getting into trouble” like a disobedient child.

“I wish you were here, Kon,” he sighed again. “You’d know exactly what to do. You were always right, you know, when it came to me. I-” he stopped. Unwilling to admit what he was about to say. Tim sat up, and drew his knees to his chest. “I made a mistake,” Tim said finally, determinedly looking at the only space of wall where there wasn’t a camera. “I pushed everyone away. And now no-one’s coming for me, are they?”

It felt like giving Ra’s the satisfaction. But Tim felt good, too. He could recognise his own demons, even if he couldn’t fight them off. It was a start.

“I really miss you, Kon. I don’t think I’ll ever get over you not being here. I’ll always think that I can say your name and you’ll come find me. I guess I have to start rescuing myself now, huh? So...” he paused. “Forgive me.”

Tim took a few moments to calm down before turning to face the camera above the door, staring straight at it, and making his face cold and impassive. His oldest and most valuable weapon.

“I know you’re listening, Ra’s. I need to talk to you.”

*

Ra’s strode through the door an hour later.

“Timothy.”

Tim counted in his head, one, two, three, four, five, before looking up from the book in his lap.

“Ra’s. I have an answer for you.” There was no point in stalling. He’d made his choice. Ra’s stood over him, arms folded.

“I’m not a patient man, detective.”

“... I’ll join you.”

Tim felt a momentary thrill in seeing the surprise on Ra’s’ face, before it settled back into his commanding mask.

“Is that so?”

“Within reason,” Tim stressed quickly. “You can keep me here and teach me whatever you want, but I’m not going to kill anyone. _And_ ,” he added, before Ra’s could speak, “you have to help me find Bruce.”

Ra’s took a few moments to consider this. To Tim’s surprise, he looked amused.

“You consider your value to be that high? To demand _my_ help?”

“You wouldn’t keep me here if I wasn’t valuable,” Tim responded simply. “I think it’s a fair deal, don’t you?”

“What if Bruce Wayne can’t be found?”

“He can be. He will be. I just need help to find him. Help that you can give, Ra’s.”

Ra’s trailed a hand down his favourite part of Tim’s wings, the smaller feathers on his arches, which rustled softly and sent chills up Tim’s spine. He barely suppressed a shiver.

“And in return, I get you?”

Tim nodded, and spoke softly, not wanting to disturb the heavy atmosphere which had just laid itself across the room.

“You get me.”

*

He knew it would work. After all, Tim had realised a while ago that Ra's al Ghul was a collector of rare and beautiful things. It had simply taken him even longer to realise that he fell into that category. The realisation had given him more pride than he’d like to admit. He tried not to imagine how disappointed his family would be in him; or would they? He was only adapting to survive. That was _Tim_ , that was what he’d always done. No-one could blame him for that, damn it.

It was late. Ra’s had left recently, leaving Tim alone in his luxurious room: an action he was surprised by, but he was grateful for the man’s restraint. He needed time alone with his thoughts.

 _It’s worth it_ , he reminded himself forcefully. _To find Bruce_. He didn’t seriously think Ra’s would bother with forcing anything on him. He seemed content with teaching him. For now. There would always be time to escape later, if needed.

Tim fell backwards, groaned, and wished he wasn’t so damn _conflicted_.

He wanted out.

He wanted _Ra’s_.

More than anything, he wanted someone who knew him to tell him what the hell to do with his life. Dick. Alfred. Kon. Bart. Hell, even _Jason._ The temptation to just yell “ _someone please help me_ ” was mounting with every passing hour, and every stupid thought that crossed his mind.

In the distance, he could hear alarm bells.

Tim frowned. No, that was right. Alarm bells.  _Real_ ones. No-one had told him what to do in the event of a- a what, exactly? Springing to his feet, he finally recognised one of the emotions swimming under his skin. He was _itching_ for a fight. He was almost relieved when the door blew open. Tim stared the intruder in the eyes, just willing them to try and make the first move, when everything stopped, like the world had frozen.

“... Conner?”

Kon dipped his head, and smiled.

“Hey, buddy. I got your call.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I'm tired. I'm really sorry about the last half of this chapter, it's not my best work, but I couldn't stand leaving the update any longer. Hope you enjoyed it anyway!


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It moved an inch.
> 
> Tim was certain of it.
> 
> He flicked his eyes over to where Dick was busy talking to a colleague he’d just spotted on the street, and then back to the security camera. Tim didn’t want to be so paranoid, but; it was looking at him. It was definitely looking at him.

“Talk to them.”

“No.”

“ _Tim_.” He continued to stare at his knees, curled up small on the sofa. “Tim. Buddy, you’re scaring me, okay?”

Something small and soft butted into his arm. Not a hand.

“No, I’m not.” His voice sounded awfully small and lost, or at least, it did to his ears. “You’re not scared of anything.”

“Not true. Look, you can’t just.. stop happening. Come on, get up. Let’s go on a walk or something. Or a fly, even!” Tim hunched up even further; an instinctive reaction that he hated himself for as soon as he realised that his vision was obscured by his knees. _Pathetic._ “Okay, not a fly. Not even talking about that, ever. Just a walk. Tim? Buddy?”

The soft thing butted him again, and Tim squirmed. Something warm and wet lapped at his clenched fist. He shot up immediately, and stared silently as his brain tried to catch up with the feeling on his skin.

“Oh... Hey, Krypto. How are you doing?” Outside his line of vision, Tim could hear his best friend sigh; out of relief or exasperation, he couldn’t tell which. Slowly, he raised his hand and began scratching behind Krypto’s ears, almost smiling as he saw the dog’s tail start to wag. “Good boy. I missed you. _And_ your owner. I’m sorry, I haven’t been paying much attention to you, have I?” He ran his fingers through the soft white fur, and after a few minutes, felt good enough to look up and meet Conner’s eyes. “Sorry.”  
Conner smiled. “Don’t worry. But just so you know, that’s the longest you’ve zoned out so far. I was about to call Nightwing.”

Tim winced; Dick’s coddling was the last thing he wanted right now. “I’m fine. You wanna go for that walk?” Krypto’s ears pricked up and Tim returned to lavishing attention on him. “Does that sound good, Krypto? A nice long walk?”

“And if we happen to pass by Gotham...” Conner interjected.

“Not _that_ long,” Tim cut him off. “Let’s just get some air, okay?”

“Okay, okay. But for the record, I don’t know if I should feel flattered that you’d rather talk to me than your family about whatever happened, or really, _really_ worried that you actually _won’t talk to your family about what happened_. Because seriously, they’re going crazy, probably, and they love you-”

“Probably,” Tim finished for him, and then winced, guilty, at Kon’s wounded expression. “Sorry. That was bitter, I’m.. I’m tired. I’ll go soon, okay? Promise. Let me just spend a bit of time with my newly-resurrected best friend and his dog, who remains my favourite non-humanoid person in the entire world.” He knelt down and scratched Krypto’s ears again, eliciting a pleased whine in response. “ _Good_ dog.”

“I swear you love my dog more than me.”

“Krypto’s cuter than you.”

“Unfair. And untrue!”

Tim laughed, softly, and tried not to feel bad at Conner’s very surprised grin. He was more sure than ever that this was where he needed to be right now. Kon started whistling and picked up Krypto’s lead and their keys; Tim pulled on his shoes and slipped his phone into his pocket, before checking it quickly.

No new messages. No missed calls.

_They’re going crazy... probably._

 

*

 

It moved an inch.

Tim was certain of it.

He flicked his eyes over to where Dick was busy talking to a colleague he’d just spotted on the street, and then back to the security camera. Tim didn’t want to be so paranoid, but; it was looking at him. It was _definitely_ looking at him. It unnerved him more than the silent, judging glances passers-by threw at his new, unbindable wings. He tried looking away, but his eyes kept flicking back and forth, back and forth, from Dick to their silent metal observer, until Dick finally parted ways with the police officer and walked back other to his brother, worry etched on his face.

“Tim? Buddy?”

He drew his gaze away completely and put on his best casual smile.

“Sorry, I completely zoned out. What were you saying, before?”

“Uh,” Dick’s voice dropped a little, “Bruce put the word out that you’d travelled to get reconstruction surgery on your wings, which is why you were way. The press seem to have bought it, so you should be fine. Uh... are you okay?”

 _Reconstruction surgery?_ “When was this decided?”

Dick frowned. “Just after you got back, I guess? Why?”

“Did he even think to- no, forget it.” Anger bubbled at the surface of Tim’s carefully calm exterior, and he had to remind himself to keep it cool. It was the first time in a very long while that he'd been able to just hang out with his eldest brother, and he didn't  _want_ to make it weird-

“What?”

\- too late.

“You’re just telling me this _now_? Bruce didn’t even think to ask about it, did he?”

“Did he need to? I mean, it’s the most plausible reason for you going away and coming back with full-sized wings...” Dick, the ever-concerned older brother, lay a comforting hand on Tim’s shoulder. It was immediately shaken off.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

“The point is...” The point was _Bruce_ , and the fact that after all this time he still never said a _goddamn word._ The point was that Tim’s wings were still something outside of his control, the size of them, the colour, how they were perceived by the public, _how they had changed_. The point was a lack of consent. The point was he couldn’t explain _any_ of this to Dick. “Forget it. You’re right, it’s the most plausible reason. Let’s go?”

Dick still looked uneasy as he turned away and they started walking, but managed to chatter on about weekend plans, or the police force, or _something_.

When he was in full swing, Tim turned his head and mouthed a clear and firm _‘no'_ to the security camera.

It moved an inch back, and he continued walking.

 

*

Tim alighted down on a balcony overlooking Ra’s’ private quarters, as quietly as he could manage. It had been almost four months, but he still flew clumsily, like a fledgling. The anxiety bubbling in his stomach didn’t help matters. He was prepared for a fight, but when masked ninja saw him approach, shining black wings fanned out behind him, they nodded respectfully and let him pass. _Odd._ Ra’s was already watching him with a patient, amused eye, and as Tim swung his legs and wings over the windowsill, a comfortable silence fell across the room. Ra’s looked him up and down; slowly, languidly, and seemed pleased.

“Detective. Always a pleasure.”

“Ra’s.” He hadn’t planned this far ahead. Well, technically- no. The speech he’d thought out on his bumpy journey over was, frankly, stupid. In the face of this assassin/king/god, it paled even further.

“You surprise me, Timothy. Why return here, now?”

“... It’s complicated.”

“I think you’ll find I’m an intelligent man.”

Tim weighed his options quickly. “Do you know the story of the Nightingale?” It came out before he could stop himself. The discovery of the old fairytale in the stacks of books in the room he hadn't seen in months had spurred the whole damn journey anyway.

If Ra’s was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“I know a few on that subject."

“Uh, it’s a particular one. Set in China. Um... I’ll just tell it to you. So," he started, almost wringing his hands but determined to keep _some_ level of dignity, "there was this nightingale, and it wasn’t much to look at. Just a really, really plain bird. But, it had this beautiful song, and people used to visit China, and hear it, and then write about this nightingale’s song like it was the most important thing there. Which really annoyed a lot of people.” He paused, and looked at his audience. Ra’s’ was watching him with a half-curious, half-indulgent expression, and Tim prayed that he didn’t sound like a complete idiot. It had sounded a lot more eloquent in his head, in-flight.

“I’m listening, Timothy,” Ra’s’ reassured him, oddly patient. Tim swallowed.

“Right. So, the emperor, who was kinda pissed that people preferred this weird, plain little bird to his palace and kingdom, ordered that the nightingale should be brought to the palace so he could hear the song and judge it for himself. And the nightingale was like, yeah, sure, because- let’s be honest, it didn’t really know any better. And maybe it wasn’t in the best state of mind to begin with; I think, maybe, it was just happy that someone thought it was beautiful for a change."

Ra's nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting." The air of being indulged, like a small child, hadn't changed from his weeks in captivity, Tim reflected. 

"So it sang for the emperor," he continued, determined to at least finish the story, "who was so pleased with it that he kept the nightingale in a cage for, maybe a year, I can’t remember. It was a really nice cage, too, made of gold and pearls and everything- but still a cage. And the nightingale started to fade away.”

He looked down, and realised that he was fiddling with his mask, turning it over in his hands. He couldn't remember taking it off.

“Eventually the emperor bought a mechanical bird or something, and kinda forgot about it for a while. But time passed, and he started asking where the real nightingale had gone. The mechanical bird just didn’t cut it. And the emperor started to get sick from heartbreak. He was dying. And the nightingale... well, even though it had been kept captive and forced to sing for _it’s own good,_ or _whatever_ -” Tim rolled his eyes, and tried to ignore the soft chuckle from out of his line of sight, “kinda _missed_ the emperor. So he flew to the windowsill, and sang for him. And promised to come again,” he added, somewhat nervously, “but only on the condition that he could come and go as he pleased.”

There was a long pause, in which Tim re-evaluated the decision to recite a fairytale to the centuries-old leader of the league of assassins, and every decision he’d made in his life before that. The mask lay by his side. His fingernails were torn to shreds. Eventually, Ra’s spoke.

“And what happened to the emperor?”

Tim started, and looked at him. Ra’s was still sitting, and had made no apparent move to call for guards or subdue Tim himself. He was merely waiting, patiently, for an answer.

“Uh.. he got better, I think. He left the mechanical bird to the court, and enjoyed the company of the real thing instead. Which was a lot better, for both parties.”

“I see.”

“Do you, though? That wasn’t exactly, eloquent, but-”

“I understand perfectly, Timothy. My nightingale.”

“My... no, I’m not calling you ‘emperor’. But you can consider that your first song.”

“My first? You haven’t flown for me yet.” He laughed at Tim’s sudden, confused frown. “That was the metaphor, was it not?”

“Well, it was really just... oh, why not.” Clumsily, he slipped from the windowsill and caught himself just before his toes touched the ground. There was more than enough room to move around in Ra’s’ spacious, sumptuous quarters, but Tim hovered on the spot as best he could, using more energy than was strictly necessary to stay in one place.

“You’ve improved.”

“It turns out there are better teaching methods than fear.”

“I’ll look into it, one day. Come closer.” Tim flew up with one forceful thrust of his wings, and a wave of air pushed towards Ra’s. Satisfied that he’d demonstrated some kind of power, Tim slowly descended, until he was a little higher than face-to-face with the Demon Head. Ra’s reached out one hand, and Tim braced himself for the brush of coarse skin on his feathers, the careful and meticulous inspection that he’d endured months before. He was surprised, however, when Ra’s’ hand carefully stroked his cheek, instead, and the much darker eyes bored into his. He couldn't look away. A slight dizziness overtook him, and Tim carefully made his way to the ground, evaluating possibilities in his head at lightning speed- _airborne sedative? fast-acting poison on his hand? flu?_ \- before he heard Ra’s’ deep chuckle and it happened again. _Oh. The other thing._

“I’m going to go now,” he managed to say, straightening up, “because it’s not like I trust you or anything.” _Or myself._ “Would it be okay if I came back, though?”

“You are always welcome here, as long as you cause no trouble, explosions, or try to form any unions.”

“No promises, Ra’s.”

“I expected nothing less. Go on, now.”

As Tim left, (the flight significantly more turbulent than before,) still a little dizzy, still a little warm, he tried not to think of what his mother would say if she knew he’d utilised her complete works of Hans Christian Andersen to seduce and bargain with a killer. Probably something along the lines of, "I taught you to recite better than that."

Still, he'd made his point, though he was still unsure of the wording. Tim wasn't a nightingale; but he wasn't a Robin, either. He was something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out that university is really time consuming? Who knew? Anyway, new chapter. I hope it makes up for the ridiculously long wait, (really sorry, guys!) The next chapter should /probably/ be the last one, (but I might add in an extra before the epilogue, because I didn't actually get to write about life with wings as much as I'd have liked to.) So we'll see how it goes! And hey, let me know what you want to see. Comments are wonderful.  
> The fairytale Tim references is "The Nightingale", translated from Hans Christian Andersen's Dutch retelling.


End file.
